Page 24

With as old as they all are, and with as small and insular as the paranormal community tends to be even in a city as big as Boston, I might have a few guesses.

But I keep those guesses to myself.

It’s not like Casimir would answer if I asked.

“And if they know something?” I ask instead.

“If they know something, we follow the threads, see if we can get them to divulge any details about who’s behind these rogue vampire attacks, and why.”

I can’t help but snort a laugh. “And you think they’d just hand that information over?”

Casimir’s eyes go distant for a moment in thought, lips curling in distaste at whatever memory surfaces. “Philippe has a tendency to boast and prattle on when the situation suits. If we can get him talking, there’s a fairly good chance he’ll say something useful.”

“What about Marcus?”

A sneer, this time, filled with even more distaste that borders on disgust. “Marcus will follow Philippe’s lead, as he always has and always will. It’s been centuries since he’s had an original thought or made any kind of strategic decision of his own.”

Again, about a hundred and one questions bubble up on my tongue, but I ignore them.

“Fine,” I say with a curt nod. “Get in front of Marcus and Philippe. Get Philippe talking. Pump him for information. Seems simple enough.”

Casimir nods as well. “Shall we?”

He steps toward the end of the alley, but there’s something else stuck in the back of my mind, a little detail we might have forgotten in all of this.

I grab Casimir’s forearm, stopping him in his tracks.

“Cassandra noticed.”

“Noticed what?”

“My… neck. The lack of a bite there. If the two of us were actually dating like we’re pretending we are…”

All of a sudden, I can’t meet his eye. Turning my gaze to the cobbled path below me, I swallow around the lump of discomfort in my chest.

Casimir hooks a finger under my chin, tipping my face up. I think it’s to make me look at him, but when he tilts my head to the side, I understand.

His eyes trace the line of my throat. Hard, focused, considering.

“We could fake it,” I rasp, reaching for the switchblade tucked into the top of my boot. “If you can cut something that looks like fang marks, maybe no one will—”

“I will not cut you, Ophelia.”

“Fine. Then maybe there’s somewhere around here with a bathroom I can use. It wouldn’t take me very long to—”

“Enough of that.” Casimir drops his hand and meets my gaze. “There’s no need to mar your lovely skin with that blade.”

“Then how do you suggest we…”

Oh.

Casimir’s lips curl into a smirk, and the flash of fang he displays answers my unspoken question.

“I would never ask you to do that.”

His smirk fades. “No?”

“No. I wouldn’t. I understand why that would be… repulsive for you to even consider.”